


Firefighter

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [83]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, John is sneaky, M/M, Sherlock is jealous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5988105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows how to get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firefighter

**Author's Note:**

> further evidence of my laziness, this one sort of follows from the "teacher" prompt.

The cafe is humid with too many people, too many pairs of lungs, the windows fogged from the inside and the whole thing vaguely unhygienic but it’s _cold_ outside and it doesn’t matter that Sherlock has a scarf, that’s not what the scarf is _for._

He huffs. Beside him, John tries not to roll his eyes but Sherlock knows John far too well and he pounces on the aborted action like a cat.

“Why are all these people here?” he says.

“Probably the same as us. It’s cold. They want coffee. Ergo: queue.”

“They’re all breathing.”

“They tend to do that.”

“I prefer them as corpses,” Sherlock says, mostly to get a rise out of John but it doesn’t work. He just snorts and goes back to staring at the shoulder blades of the man in front of him.

“This is disgusting,” Sherlock tries again but John just ignores him and with a last indignant huff he whirls about, making sure his coat slaps against John’s legs as he does so, and goes to wait outside.

Except that it’s _cold._ He stands on the pavement with his hands in his pockets and he tries not to shiver and John is taking forever and Sherlock can’t even see him with the windows steamed up and he doesn’t even like the coffee at this place anyway. This is John’s fault. Why did John insist on going _here. Jones_ is only three blocks away and the coffee there is of a far better quality and John always seems to get along well with the man who runs it, Welshman though he is with disproportionately large eyes and a rather flirtatious manner.

Sherlock frowns. Too flirtatious, actually. Sherlock had found them chatting a little too casually, a little too close over the counter one day and he’d had to…had to…ah. Right. _That’s_ why they’re not allowed to go back to _Jones_ any more. But really, they’d locked the door first and it wasn’t as if anyone else was in the toilets at the time.

In fact, if Sherlock thinks about it, they seem to be running out of coffee shops that they’re actually allowed in anymore. In fact, they seem to get banned from a coffee shop at least once a month. But it’s not _his_ fault. If John would just stop _flirting—_

A sudden suspicion starts to niggle at his mind. John isn’t really all that flirtatious ordinarily. In fact, it took an inordinately long time for him to even notice that Sherlock had been trying to get it on with him for at least eight months before he’d finally just gotten tired of it and simply shoved John up against a wall. And John had been so shocked, his mouth open in that surprised little _O,_ just wide enough for Sherlock to slip his tongue in and later, straddling John’s chest in bed, the rather more considerable breadth of his cock. He’d had to open it quite a bit wider for that, though.

Now, thinking back on it, he remembers coffee shop after coffee shop populated by random men that Sherlock wouldn’t have thought for an instant were John’s type except that he seemed to keep flirting with them anyway, strangely docile to the fact that Sherlock was always _right there._ It was actually remarkably unlike John if he thought about it and it always seemed to end with them being kicked out of a new coffee place.

Sherlock has a sudden vision of a broad back and John’s eyes, fixed steadily on it in spite of that fact that Sherlock had been _right there_ and trying to bait him. John actually _ignoring him_ for someone else! And _doing it on purpose!_

He is back through the door before he even realises it, and sure enough, there’s John, barely even moved ahead in the queue, and the man (handsome, damn him!) is turned around and they’re laughing together.

Sherlock can hear the man say, “That’s right, I’m a firefighter! How did you guess?” and he snarls under his breath and takes a step forward when suddenly John—his John, his ordinary, uncomplicated, non-flirtatious John, who would kill for him and who puts up with him and does anything he asks (except for when he doesn’t)— _John_ looks at him. And Sherlock stops. Because there, just there, barely even visible and gone the next instant, is a _smile._ And it is _smug._

_John!_

Sherlock is shocked. And then he is delighted. And then he is indignant because John— _his John—_ has been playing him like a fiddle through every coffee shop in London and he hadn’t even _noticed._ Damn him!

And so Sherlock forces his shoulders down, puts a smile on his face, and he strolls forward and Sherlock isn’t imagining it when he sees the shiver running through John’s body.

“Hello,” he says lightly when he reaches them. He holds out a hand to the stranger who looks at him with friendly curiosity. “I’m Sherlock.”

“Hey. Chaz,” the man says. “I was just getting to know John here. He says he’s a detective. Could tell right off that I was a firefighter and that I like my coffee black!” He laughs and Sherlock tries not to scowl because the man is clearly a cream-two-sugars type, but he keeps the stupid grin pasted on his face and he looks sideways at John and suddenly the grin becomes a great deal easier to maintain because John is watching him in open-faced dismay.

“Yes, John is very clever,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt this very _fascinating_ conversation, I’ll just go back outside and leave you to it, shall I?” And without a backwards glance he strides away, trying hard not to grin.

Seven minutes later John appears, carrying two coffees and a rather tense expression on his face. Sherlock makes himself smile and takes one of the cups, not even bothering to ask which one. John always carries his own in his right hand.

“So,” he says, “Hungry?”

John doesn’t say anything and as they walk along Sherlock can’t help but glance over at him. He is staring at Sherlock, a vaguely panicked look on his face.

“John?” Sherlock asks, keeping his voice light. “Dinner?”

“Sure,” John says. “If you’re—yeah. Sure. Dinner.”

They go to Angelo’s because it’s easy and it’s close and the whole meal John shifts restlessly in his seat. Sherlock is aware of John watching him, but every time he looks up and tries to catch his eye, John’s gaze flickers guiltily away. For the first time in their acquaintance, the silence is _awkward,_ and Sherlock feels a smug sort of triumph at the fact that he tries to not let show.

John eats quickly, clearly wanting it all to be over, and feeling perverse, Sherlock orders food and actually eats it. _Slowly._ He savours every single bite and is aware of John squirming the whole time.

When he finishes dinner he orders dessert, much to Angelo’s intense delight, and while they’re waiting for it, without even bothering to look at him, Sherlock slides his hand under the table and just… _reaches._ And he grins because he _knew it._

John freezes. And Sherlock, his hand settled unhesitatingly on his groin, _squeezes._

“So,” he says, and this time when he looks at John, John doesn’t look away. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice, did you?”

“Sherlock,” John says, or breathes because the two syllables of his name don’t quite emerge intact. “What—”

“The flirting? The strangers? All the coffee shops we’ve been kicked out of? You know, I really _liked_ the coffee in some of those places.”

“Sherlock,” John says again and this time it comes out whole. “What are you—”

“You’re hard, John. You’ve been hard since you first set eyes on that firefighter in front of you who, by the way, likes his coffee white with sugar. Do you know why you’re hard, John? Because as soon as you set eyes on him the only thing you could imagine was _me._ Dragging you into the loo and fucking you against the sink. Is it the mirror, John? Is that what it is? Do you like watching yourself while I do it? Is it that you like how everyone outside the door can hear you, moaning with my cock up your arse? Or do you just like to make me jealous?”

John clears his throat. He’s beet red now and his breaths are coming in short, sharp gasps. He opens his mouth and tries to speak but nothing comes out except a tiny high-pitched moan.

“Answer the question, John,” Sherlock says and he gives another squeeze of his hand and this time there’s nothing tiny about the sound John gives.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Do I neglect you so much that you feel you need to manipulate me in order to gain my attention?”

John shakes his head. He’s biting his bottom lip and it’s turning white and Sherlock wonders if he’ll actually bite through it. He wants him to. He wants to kiss him after he does, taste the salt of his blood with his tongue. He’s hard too now and all of a sudden he regrets ordering dessert.

“Tell me what you need from me, John,” he says and he doesn’t realise how far he’s leaning over, how close he suddenly is until John’s hair is tickling at his lips and he pulls back because Angelo’s is one place they really can’t afford to be kicked out of.

“Tell me,” he says and he presses his hand down over John’s swollen cock and John _thrusts_ and Sherlock suddenly doesn’t care about dessert at all.

“All of it,” John gasps. “All of it. Sherlock. Sherlock, please. _Please.”_

And John begging is exactly where Sherlock needs him right and without a word he pulls his hand away and stands up, sweeping out of the booth. It’s a full ten seconds before John collects himself enough to come after him and by then Sherlock is already out the door.

They don’t go home but they do walk because Sherlock needs to calm himself and because he wants John to have to wait just that much longer. He leads the way, going down side streets and pedestrian zones where the shops have closed hours ago. John is flushed and panting and he has given up tugging at the hem of his coat blocks ago in his attempt to try hiding the obvious evidence of his arousal. It’s dark, though, and the streets are quiet enough on a Wednesday evening that Sherlock doesn’t think it matters. Though he wonders if John would particularly care at this point. He is making noises at every breath, tiny little moaning whines that Sherlock has only heard from him once before, that very first time Sherlock had pushed a finger between his thighs and into that tiny, hot hole. John had begged him them, thrusting his hips down and fucking himself on Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock hadn’t even had to move while John had writhed and moaned and made himself come without a touch.

And suddenly Sherlock can’t wait anymore. Doesn’t _want_ to wait. He sweeps down the first narrow alley he sees and he doesn’t even need to look behind him to know that John is following, and he only walks ten strides into the shadows before he is turning and shoving John face first against the wall and dragging at his trousers and John is gasping, his face flush against the brick, the high-pitched whine in his throat driving Sherlock mad. And the moment John’s trousers and pants are down Sherlock grabs his hips and pulls and John cries out as he’s dragged backwards, his hands scrabbling to find purchase on the wall.

“You want this?” Sherlock snarls, and he is fumbling at his flies, his hands slipping on the blasted button. “You want this, John? Then take it. Because I’m done giving you what you want. I’m finished letting you trick me. You want my cock?” and he pulls it out and feeling filthy he spits in his palm and slicks it over its length before pushing it roughly between John’s cheeks. “You want this? Then take it yourself.”

And John _whines_ oh god and Sherlock has to restrain himself from shoving forward, pushing into that seductive heat, because John is pushing back, his hips making tentative searching forays against the head of Sherlock’s cock but there’s no lube, nothing that will let him just slide back, just the spit, barely there, and the precome dripping from the tip and driving Sherlock mad.

“Take it!” Sherlock hisses and in spite of himself pushes just that little bit forward and he feels the aching heat of John’s hole give way and drag him in and he moans because he’s never wanted something so badly in his life but this is about John right now, this is about teaching him a lesson, and he forces himself to still, forces himself to stand there while John whimpers and writhes, trying to push himself backwards and he does it, oh god he actually does it, inch by inch, thrusting in tiny increments until he is sobbing Sherlock’s name and Sherlock’s fingers are biting deep in the solid flesh of John’s hips.

“Sherlock!” John begs, and Sherlock buries his fingers even deeper and he thinks of the marks they will leave, the deep bruises and the tiny crescent cuts of finger nails.

“Take it,” he snarls, “Fuck yourself on me,” and with a choking whimper John starts to move, tiny little thrusting motions because there just isn’t enough of anything to make this easy and each movement catches at too much skin. But it doesn’t matter because he’s already coming, shaking and crying, his hands clenching against the bricks, his hips wildly convulsing out of his control and Sherlock can’t help it. He comes, shouting John’s name as he bends double against his spine, feeling the wetness finally fill the space in between them and letting him move and he thrusts recklessly forward even as his orgasm overtakes him.

And then…then there’s just panting, and trying to remember how to move, and trying to keep from falling down because suddenly Sherlock becomes very aware that they’re in an alleyway and that’s he’s standing in the accumulated filth that an alleyway will always breed and his cock is sliding out of John’s hole and he can feel the slide of his own semen dripping down the crack of John’s arse and onto his softening penis and all of a suddenly it’s just too much and he starts to laugh, uncontrollable giggles, and bent underneath him, still clutching at the brick wall, John starts to laugh as well.

“I can’t believe,” Sherlock heaves, “We just did that.”

And John, eyes streaming with tears and cheeks flushed bright red, looks back and him grinning and says, “Bloody took you long enough.”


End file.
